


medusa

by s0dafucker



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: ? - Freeform, Gore, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Nightmares, author is not a hot girl but tried to write for one, definitely some gore, ish, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 19:38:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13864596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0dafucker/pseuds/s0dafucker
Summary: brooke dies in her dreams, over and over again, bleeding out and crying for her.





	medusa

**Author's Note:**

> big ol tw!!  
> theres a lot of violence/gore/talk about suicide/talk about sexual assault/harassment

she has the dream for the first time months before graduation.

brooke is crying, screaming, and she turns a corner to find her bleeding on the ground, all of her spilling out onto the linoleum of the cafeteria, too red to be real, tears falling down her face and chloe reaches out to her- she slips on the slick floor, brooke’s sobs echoing in her ears, and wakes up shaking. her nightgown is soaked through with sweat.

happily ever after is a phrase that chloe can only imagine in venom tones, spat like poison from forked tongues, sarcasm dripping in every syllable. she does not see how graduation will fix her life, how everything will be okay. she resents highschool, and resents that she has to leave it.

she is not stupid enough to believe that nothing will change. she will never be as popular as she is now.  

she will go to college, somewhere she would be able to afford tuition for the rest of her life, and marry someone with just as much money as her parents, bat her eyes and arch her back in a way that will convince him. she will never again feel the power that radiates through the halls, the sharp click of her heels on the cold floor, the knowledge that she could snap her fingers and people would listen. she is poised on a throne crafted of lies and gold and the skulls of those who oppose her, her nails manicured with the blood of those she could not tolerate. she is  _ chloe valentine _ in high school, and she knows that will fade. she will become a football player’s girlfriend and a lawyer’s wife, a pta mom with glasses upon glasses of wine and a stockpile of anti-wrinkle creams. 

the idea of having children scares her. carrying something inside her for months and pushing it into the world where it will be judged and forced into whatever it is decided it will become. creating a thing that will have to exist and knowing that it is half hers, she is half the reason it is dragged through the motions of the life it lives.

she wonders if she wants to die. she knows it is a luxury to ask herself that, to peel herself out of $75 tights and wonder if her fingers could ever fit around a gun or a razor blade or a bottle of pills the way they bring a bottle to her mouth, or a cock, and she decides that it’s possible. 

she has the dream almost every night. brooke’s sobs haunt her when she catches a glimpse of her in the hall; she blinks and her insides are pouring out of her and pooling on the floor in a cocktail of why can’t you save me. 

she wants to hold her own heart in her hand. she imagines it is frosted over, cold to the touch, icicles gathering where it should drip onto the ground between her feet and beating a slow, tired march.

sometimes she stares at herself when she gets out of the shower, rubs the fog off the mirror and really stares until everything starts to look wrong. it makes her feel less perfect, like she isn’t the thing she’s turned herself into, and her breasts really are uneven, and one of her eyes is smaller than the other, and her hips aren’t big enough to balance out the rest of her, and she isn’t a marble statue in a gallery, or a pornstar, or  _ chloe valentine.  _

she stares at her body until she doesn’t understand why anyone would ever want it, why anyone would whisper the things they want to do to her in her ear with a tone that makes her feel it down her shirt, why their untrained hands paw at her tits and ass and put their fingers in her cunt like her pleasure is a second thought to theirs, and she fakes the noises well enough and wishes to arch her back so high it snaps.

it’s not all bad- she hasn’t served a detention or run the mile since elementary school, never pays for drinks or has her fake id scrutinized too harshly, never has her tardies marked or her red eyes commented on. she wears v necks on test days and lingers long enough by the teacher’s desk to let her perfume fill his nostrils and lets her lips, glossy, wet,  _ young _ , fall open enough for implications to slip between. she is told she has blowjob lips when she is eleven years old, walking to the gas station for a soda. 

she is too formidable to be a slut. she is too untouchable even when she is touched, even when she sucks enough dick to be the most popular girl in every district in the county she is still an ice queen. a snake of a girl, a body and a weapon. 

she can fake a smile like no one else, a toothy, perky thing that feels like holding a knife in her mouth, but makes men feel like they’ve said something witty. boys are kinder, don’t tug that smile out of her like pulling a tooth, don’t need it. men wrench it out like they’re ripping her limbs apart- ‘c’mon baby, gimme a smile’-like her body is the plaything of a wolf, something to be torn up and discarded; boys have hands that are clumsy, inexperienced, but  _ men  _ have claws, ripping her open to reap their fill of her intestines, the meat of her body, and she has the dream every single night starting the month before she graduates. 

sometimes she thinks that brooke is the only person she cares about. 

her mother isn’t around enough to be anyone of consequence- she is too tired, too busy, too whatever the fuck it is this time, ‘go play and leave mommy alone, chloe’ and her father is pleasant but out of the state every weekend, business trip, business trip, golfing, business trip; and she wonders if she’s really horrible for not caring. 

jake is the only thing she’s ever wanted. lusted after, needed, but couldn’t have; he was too kind for her, too soft and gentle, too unlike the boys and men she knows. he deserves better.

she is the best, anyone would be lucky to have her, but she is a monster and she knows it. she isn’t someone jake should love. she is tainted, venomous, jaded. she would ruin him.

brooke is the only person she cares about. 

brooke dies in her dreams, over and over again, bleeding out and crying for her, and every time she tries to go to her she’s too late, too slow, not good enough _.  _

she wants to hold her own heart in her hand. to pull it from her chest and watch it beat a slow, dying tempo, like the vein of a rabbit caught in a trap, noose pulling tightly around its neck- her uncle took her on hunting trips when she was young and taught her what it looked like when something died.

she wonders what it will look like when she dies. what will it be like to find her body, alcohol poisoned or drugged out on her couch, her husband a murder suspect; or on the tile of her bathroom at home, blood pooling around her, a blade wrestled from her razor or a gun from her father’s cabinet fallen from her hand. she wonders who will find her. how long it will take. if her parents will cry. if the men in town will read the newspaper with their coffee one morning and stumble upon her eulogy and recognize her face- her face, never her name, only her pretty face, and she hopes they’ll spill their coffee. burn their skin like they burnt hers. 

she cuts her hair the night before graduation. she’s read that serial killers do that sometimes, when they kill women. prostitutes, usually, they cut their hair as short as they can, hacking at it and leaving them bloodied in alleys. the theory is that they do it to remove their femininity, what makes them beautiful.

she reaches brooke in the dream that night.

she rounds the corner, a sinking feeling of dread as her shoes slide on the linoleum, she wants to rip her heart from her chest, and brooke is  _ there _ and she runs into chloe’s arms, her whole body trembling, and chloe wakes up crying.

she runs her hand through her too short hair and mourns the end of high school.

**Author's Note:**

> do i like the title? no  
> its what i called the google doc and i couldnt think of anything else
> 
> if u have any feelings abt it please let me know i wrote it in a couple hours and im iffy on it


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